#leanto

Oh my. Wait so do you mean like what souvenirs people would buy during intermission of the play? I love this question.

The first thing I think of is the royal family’s crest, which Culpa wears on a ring and Emilio wears on a necklace. So there’s two things.

I’d also definitely have a journal that looks like the one Leanto carries around. It’d be blank so people can actually use it but every few pages would have what looks like a note he made or a drawing he did.

This doesn’t really come from the story per se, but I’ve always imagined something like one of those gold preserved roses, except not gold and one side is alive and the other is decayed and frail.

I’d love to have a little snow globe of the country, but that’s just because I love snow globes. On that note, maybe a map as well.

Friendship bracelets!! I promise it’s described better in the actual story but my main four have matching bracelets that they longingly look at once they get split up

I’d love to say Asa’s knife shoes, but I don’t think the theater would approve of that

I live like a king. My castle is a modest house and my kingdom a square of land not much larger than the house. I chuckle in spite of myself at the thought of the blades of grass representing my loyal subjects. I let my mind wander further as the calm of my sketching washes over me. My hand curves and drags the charcoal against the textured paper; the first step in materializing what currently exists only in my mind. The subjects are what they are, but the kingdom is mine and mine alone. 

The one fallacy in my kingly imaginings is in the nature of the word. Kings are fallible. Human. Weak. By no means do I seek to grasp the false power a king possesses. Power resides not within the confines of mortal bodies. It flows much deeper than that. It has always been laughable to me that a person with fragile skin and bones could be so arrogant as to call himself King. 

I run my charcoal-stained hand through my hanging hair and squint at the drawing. It’s not my best work, but it is getting better. I add it to the pile of drawings just like it. Plans for my group, the Concordian Society, that will stand tall one day to appease our Gods. The pounding of hooves sends a jolt through my body and interrupts my thoughts. Wonderful. The Big Hill Brigade must be here to dutifully deliver another royal announcement. As I slide my charcoal back into its bag I can’t help but wonder what the ever so exciting news could be. Perhaps the young princes aced their exams. Or maybe the princess wants to alert everyone of the color of her new dress. I chide myself to be less cynical. I guess some days are more challenging than others. 

I push my feet into my torn slippers and trudge outside. I squint at the morning light that wriggles its way past my eyelids. A small group has gathered, as it is law to be present upon the arrival of castle guards. Yet another amusing thought. Who’s to say I’m not home when the guardsmen come through? Would they hold the town in anticipation while they peek through the windows of every home? 

“Gather close, for this is important news to share.” The uppity man’s voice boomed. I eye his horse and the way it looks like this is the absolute last place it wants to be. 

“It is with a heavy heart that we must announce the closing of the castle walls.” The second guard said. His statement sparked a light murmur among us, although it isn’t like this is exactly new information. The Wardviel’s hardly show their faces in Yolksford, let alone in a grimey town like mine. The only time any of them interact with the common folk is when a handful of us are so graciously picked to feast at the palace for Visitation. I look on, anticipating what exactly makes this news so heavy-hearted. 

“The palace asks that you take care to find this fugitive,” the first man continues, holding up a wanted poster. Through the sea of heads, I could not make out the face. Yet shocked faces before me keep my interest piqued. The murmurs escalate to conversations I perk my ears up for. 

One man shouts at the guards, “Hey, why don’t you tell us what’s going on?” The question gets no response. The guards continue dispersing posters for those of us standing in the back. One of the men’s horses trots my way and the guardsman leans down to give me a copy of the drawing. 

I can’t help but smile at the incredible turn of events today. Below the large letters forming “WANTED” was the name Culpa Wardviel. The fucking princess. The future queen-to-be. I grasp the paper and run back inside my house. Allowing my eyes to wander to the reward, I catch my breath in my throat. 24,000 gold. It was more than I had ever seen in my life. Let’s face it; more than I will ever see. 

Seeing as the commotion is over, I excuse myself to my home. My pulse is rushing. I scramble to find a nail and my hammer. I don’t have time for this. I sweep my drawings off the table, not really caring about the clunk as my pencils hit the ground. I have more important matters at hand. I turn and grip the thick rope, urging my weak arms to pull. I run outside to make sure I raised the right flag. I always mistake the red flag’s rope for the blue one. I should probably paint the rope, that would be a good way to solve it. No time for that now though. Squinting into the sun, I see the little old reliable red flag, alerting my allies of this momentous moment. 

I’ve only raised it twice before. The first was when I thought I saw a spirit guiding me toward them, asking for help in returning their soul to the waking world. Once my allies arrived, we investigated with a lantern and realized the spirit was no more than a linen caught on a branch. I didn’t live that one down for months. The second flag raise is not a memory I often return to. 

Before I am able to make it back through the door, I hear a familiar voice. 

“Leanto! Leanto, do the stars above spell our names?”

I chuckle at my best and oldest friend, Gregory (probably not his name but it doesn’t really matter) He, being the more charismatic and excitable of us, jumps in the air and spins toward a woman walking with her daughter. He grabbed the young girl’s hand and gave her a brief twirl. I cackle as the woman rips her daughter away from Gregory and knocks him on the head with her bundle of flowers. 

“Gregory Aburta! Your mother taught you better than to be so cheerful on this day of sorrow!” “My apologies, madame,” Greg feigns sweeping an imaginary longcoat behind him and leans toward the woman’s hand in a grand gesture of a kiss. She blushes and steps away with a pep in her toes. Gregory, standing half a head above me in height, and sporting bright blue eyes has always given him a certain confidence about interacting with women. 

I hiss Greg’s name and call him over. There are more important matters to get to this morning. Standing in my kitchen doubling as a meeting room, I pull the newfound treasure of a wanted poster from my trousers and slowly unfold it toward Gregory. We stare at each other. Our mouths can no longer hold in the smiles we’ve contained. The two of us, grown men I might add, scream in joy and our bodies float around my home. My ceiling is a bit too low for Greg’s height, so his jumping is more muted than he’d like. 

“Greg stop, they’re arriving.” I pull him back into reality and straighten my stained shirt and belt. 

Gregory stands watch at the front door with a solemn look replacing his wide grin. I take my place standing at the wood column across from the kitchen table. Tucking my arms behind my back, I wait for the visitors to enter. As a stream of young men make their way through the doorway, I nod at each of them. After a few moments, five stand at my table. Greg takes the last spot, and extends his arms toward me.

“Our valiant leader, Leanto of the Western Sea!” Gregory’s hands move to form our group’s symbol; the left hand facing his own face, and the other facing mine, with the two meeting at the fingertips. The rest of the men follow suit. 

I clear my throat. “Fellow Concordians, we gather here today to discuss an important development.” My statement is met with a few grunts and eager nods. “As we all know, the palace bestowed a very interesting bit of information on us this morning.” 

Gregory slammed the wanted poster onto the tabletop. 

“Do we know what became of the queen?” A man named Samuel spoke up. 

“I heard the princes and princess all killed her.” Piped Mikael. “No, you muddle-brain. It was the cook. She poisoned the Queen’s meal.” Said Chester.

“We here have no room in our minds for such trivial matters,” I definitively chided. “What is important is that we find the traitor princess. We will return her to her blasphemous parents, and become richer than any of us could dream.” I signal for Gregory to take his turn. 

“Finding the princess will not only fund an official Concordian building to call our own. It will also get our name on the map. Endorsement and thanks from the false King will give us the opportunity to find more members.” Greg says, scanning the room for approval. 

“Then, we will truly begin our journey to defeat the fuckers in the name of our Gods.” I feel my blood boil from anticipation.

Gregory stands and throws his fists in the air. “Down with the false gods!”